


Nothing remains

by BlackSmile



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Character Death, I mean it, Other, everyone dies, multiple character deaths, so thats something right, the pairing is kinda in the background, this is not a happy story, well darius is still alive in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 00:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13601643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackSmile/pseuds/BlackSmile
Summary: If the shot had never missed it's target





	Nothing remains

There was always a rush of emotions accompanied with the stage. Excitement and fright. Bliss and anxiousness.

Nothing could ever compare to the gut-wrenching terror of having the man you've tried to escape from, standing in front of you. The man who's stalked and twisted you for years, who's killed for seemingly nothing but fun. Whose voice you still hear singing soft lullabies in your ear when you sleep. A voice so full of love and admiration, just to turn to furious and nasty within a heartbeat.

In an impulsive rush of emotion, Christine tore the mask from his face. Oh, if only she had known, if only she had known the terrible fate she had just doomed everyone to.

The gasps and yelps from the audience faded from her consciousness as her whole world circled around Erik. The robes too loose around his skeletal body, his hands shaking, still grasping where her hands had been. His eyes, oh his terrible and mesmerizing eyes. So full of hope, so full of sadness. So full of _betrayal_.

The whole world came crashing down on her when a shot echoed though the vastness of her own universe. When the blood splashed on her and Erik simply collapsed.

She starts screaming.

 

The whole city knows by the coming morning. The headline of every newspaper and tabloid. The news was sure to have spread even beyond the borders of Paris.

_The Phantom of the Opera is dead_

_Opera ghost naught but a fraud_

_The haunting is over_

_Finally, peace for our beloved Opera_

 

For the managers it was a title they wore proudly for the rest of their days. They were the ones who bested the man that had haunted and terrorized the opera for decades. They were the ones that killed that pest, that _specimen_.

They celebrate with countless parties and interviews.

They hired a doctor to make a memorial of the corpse. They unveiled it a month later for a celebration ball.

 

It is the Phantom, because they do not care that he had a name. The Phantom was propped up in ridiculous clothes they had made. Torn and crumbled sheet music scattered around his feet. One hand held his mask, the other a gun. His face was revealed. The horrible features barely recognizable, twisted in what should be a grin.

They turned him into a fool. A trickster and monster was what they present to the world.

Some said it was tasteless to see this inhuman figure when entering the opera, most praised it and paid just to see it.

 

When they invited Miss Daaé, they told her to pay her respects, to say farewell to what should have been a friend. When she saw the memorial, she collapsed into a screaming fit and had to be carried out by paramedics. They found her a week later, a pale body floating along the Seine. Some say her cheeks could not be dried from all the tears she had shed. When they pried her clenched fists open, they found her engagement ring and another, plain silver with a black onyx. The latter they auctioned off, the first they give back to its original owner.

 

The young Vicomte would never recover from the loss of his love. He withdrew himself from all of society. When he died of old age, only his servants would stood by his grave to pay respects. Soon after they would go on to see employment elsewhere.

 

History would not remember the lone figure in the background. The one who went down into the basement to weep when the echoes of the gun had not yet faded away. The one who took all that had value to his friend and brought it to safety. They would find a simple house with the barest of necessities, except for a grand organ. They would not find the fine clothes and suits, they would not find the jewels and riches. They would not find anything that made this monster a man.

Nadir supposed it was easier this way. Maybe Erik would be soothed knowing they only presented his face; never could they present him.

He took Ayesha too. She would either starve or be killed later by the people scouting the basements. For days and nights on end, she would pace around his apartment, crying for her lost friend. Nadir would cradle her in his arms and cry silently with her.

The "success" of the Opera Ghost would last for years. When Paris got used to the gruesome face greeting them in the foyer of the Opera House, nobleman from all over the country came, later international royalty. Those who could afford it even came all the way from America to see it. To see this monster. To congratulate its hunters. Some would say the Opera House nowadays got more money and attention for a corpse, rather than the living people performing on the stage.

 

Nadir would never step foot across the threshold again. Sometimes he would sit outside, watching the door, as if Erik could simply walk out. As if it had been one of his schemes and he would laugh at him for believing it. Yet the ache in his chest always reminded him of the cruel reality. His friend was dead, murdered on the stage and turned into an act.

Bitter cold tears would wash over his face whenever he remembered. Soon stories would emerge about him. He never stopped long enough to listen to them. Summed up, they were always about a girl anyways. Fools. There was not a girl in the world that could take his heart. Not now that it was shattered inside his chest. Not ever since he had met a prodigy in the bitter cold of Russia’s fairs.

Sure, Erik had never been the easiest person to get along with, but Nadir had found that years of building trust had revealed a fragile and kind man beneath all those shells of hatred and sarcasm. The kind of man he should have been. Instead he had let the world shape him into what they saw in his face. Truth be told, Nadir could not blame him. Not after he had heard his stories and tales. Chased away with stones and sticks like a sick mongrel when they should have welcomed him with praise and love.

Ayesha didn't last a year. She ate less and less with each week until she simply wasted away. Darius found her, curled up on one of Erik's shirts. They buried her on the outskirts of the city, wrapped inside the shirt she had chosen as her final resting place. Not a week after, Nadir rewrote his will to leave all he had to Darius. His loyal servant would know what to do best with everything.

Time trickled. Nadir started to feel old. Everything seemed to hurt, just moving from armchair to bed seemed a task impossible to complete, thus he simply stayed in either day and night. He wasted away, just like Ayesha had, and he was aware. But he didn't mind. His life had been lived, there was nothing left for him to do.

On the dawn of what was supposed to be the tenth anniversary of the unveiling of the Phantom, alarms rang through the city. The opera was alit in the early hours of the morning. Nothing could be saved. Everything burned. Down to the deepest cavern. Everything burned and Paris was left with a deep hole where their pride had once stood.

They said it was the Phantom’s revenge. They said his soul had been so furious, it had ascended from the deepest pit of hell to destroy those who had hunted him down. They said a lot of things. No one would ever know the truth. No one would ever know the tragic tale of Erik, for the only one left to tell it had burned with him.


End file.
